The Highlander's Captured Bride (Steamy Scottish Historical Romance) Read online

  The Highlander's Captured Bride

  A Scottish Historical Romance Novel

  Eloise Madigan

  Contents

  A Steamy Gift For You…

  Scottish Brogue Glossary

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  Preview: Captured by His Highland Kiss

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Also by Eloise Madigan

  About the Author

  A Steamy Gift For You…

  Thanks a lot for purchasing my book. It really means a lot to me, because this is the best way to show me your love.

  As a Thank You gift I have written a full length novel for you, called Captured by His Highland Kiss. It’s only available to people who have downloaded one of my books and you can get your free copy by tapping the image below or this link here.

  Once more, thanks a lot for your love and support.

  Eloise Madigan

  About the Book

  Amidst the darkness of chaos, she was his heaven and his sin...

  Violet O'Cain has been solving cases alongside her father ever since she turned of age. When they receive a letter from the Laird of MacChoill, requiring their services, she is not prepared for the scene she sees. Or the sadness in the eyes of the victim’s brother.

  With vengeance on his mind and his brother’s killer still roaming free, Ethan MacFerson’s guilt stems elsewhere: his sudden inability to control himself around the detective’s beautiful daughter.

  Convinced that his brother’s killer will strike again, Ethan’s suspicions are proven right. A note, with a very clear ultimatum: his head or his father’s. When Violet bears witness to something she shouldn’t have, she finds herself thrown into the dungeons, staring straight into the murderer’s eyes.

  Scottish Brogue Glossary

  Here is a very useful glossary my good friend Lydia Kendall sent to me, that will help you better understand the Scottish Brogue used:

  aboot - about

  ach - oh

  afore - before

  an' - and

  anythin - anything

  a'side - beside

  askin' - asking

  a'tween - between

  auld - old

  aye - yes

  bampot - a jerk

  bare bannock- a type of biscuit

  bearin' - bearing

  beddin' - bedding or sleeping with

  bellend - a vulgar slang word

  blethering - blabbing

  blootered - drunk

  bonnie - beautiful or pretty

  bonniest - prettiest

  cannae - cannot

  chargin' - charging

  cheesin' - happy

  clocked - noticed

  c'mon- come on

  couldn'ae - couldn't

  coupla - couple of

  crivens - hell

  cuddie - idiot

  dae - do

  dinin' - dining

  dinnae - didn't or don't

  disnae - doesn't

  dobber - idiot

  doesn'ae - doesn't

  dolton - idiot

  doon - down

  dram - a measure of whiskey

  efter - after

  eh' - right

  'ere - here

  fer - for

  frein - friend

  fey - from

  gae - get or give

  git - a contemptible person

  gonnae - going to

  greetin' - dying

  hae - have

  hald - hold

  haven'ae - haven't

  heed - head

  heedstart - head start

  hid - had

  hoovered - gobbled

  intoxicated - drunk

  kip - rest

  lass - young girl

  leavin - leaving

  legless - drunk

  me - my

  nae - not

  no' - not

  noo - now

  nothin' - nothing,

  oan - on

  o' - of

  Och - an Olympian spirit who rules the sun

  oot- out

  packin- packing

  pished - drunk

  scooby - clue

  scran - food

  shite - shit

  sittin' - sitting

  so's - so as

  somethin' - something

  soonds ' sounds

  stonking - stinking

  tae - to

  teasin' - teasing

  thrawn - perverse, ill-tempered

  tryin' - trying

  wallops - idiot

  wee -small

  wheest - talking

  whit's - what's

  wi'- with

  wid - would

  wisnae - was not

  withoot - without

  wouldnae - wouldn't

  ya - you

  ye - you

  yea - yes

  ye'll - you'll

  yer - your

  yerself - yourself

  ye're - you're

  ye've - you've

  Prologue

  Scotland, 1715

  Clan MacFerson

  At the sound of the terrified neigh, Ethan shot from the back of his family’s stables into the front. He got there in time to see a blacksmith about to place a shoe on a bay-colored mare. With one look, he knew the poor man was moments away from getting kicked in the head, as this horse tended to frighten easily. He rushed in and yanked the man away just as a hoof came up to lay a crushing kick to the man’s head.

  His pull was so forceful that both men were sprawled out on the floor. The horse pranced away while they sat in disbelief until the smith stood and helped him up. Ethan dusted off his kilt and went to get the horse, whose eyes were heavy with fear and her ears twitched angrily.

  “She’s a nervous one,” he said to the smithy. “It doesnae take much to get her agitated.”

  “Sorry, Master MacFerson.” The blacksmith then sighed. “I dinnae ken.”

  “Most wouldnae.” Ethan rubbed the horse’s ears with one hand. “I’ve spent most of me time inside here with these horses. Let me help ye. Get yer tools and follow me lead.”

  Guiding the horse to a corner where barrels and buckets of feed rested, he sat on a stool and began to pet the animal’s ears to soothe her. He got her calmed her down enough that her ears stopped moving agitatedly. Then, he plucked a late apple from the barrels near him and fed it to her.

  While he got her distracted enough, he gestured for the smith to begin putting the shoe to her. He looked up to a window and saw the mist rising from the ground. The loch near his home made a thick mist blanket the land every morning. It was just past dawn and, even though it was summer, the land was white.

  I wonder if Finley is home yet? I want to give him me ideas about thi
s summer’s tournament.

  He kept soothing the horse while the smithy worked. His mind, however, kept flitting to his older brother and how the tournament between them and Clan Hofte— their once greatest enemies— had come about. A smile tugged at his face when he remembered how Finley had nearly gotten himself killed by taking the suggestion to them.

  The smithy was almost done when a boy came running into the stable, his face pale and eyes frantic. “Master MacFerson, yer faither needs ye.”

  His brows knit in the middle, “Is something wrong?”

  The boy’s capped head nodded furiously, “Yes, sir, it’s…it’s yer brother, he was—” a hard grimace on the boy’s face had Ethan shooting up from his seat before the boy could spit the last words out, “—found dead a while ago at the forest line.”

  Ethan took off running with fear fueling his feet. He darted past guards, through a side gate, and down a slope, to come to a skidding halt. His father’s broad back blocked his way but when he shifted, Ethan nearly collapsed where he stood.

  Finley was resting on a tree, his body in a casual pose but his neck…his neck was slashed right across. Dried blood stained his skin and his clothes. His shock had a cry of fright trapped in his throat, and he grabbed unto his father to steady himself.

  Finley’s light brown-blond hair was matted with dew and his tanned skin was mottled. He was dressed in his hunting’s apparel, thick trews and linen shirt. In his lax hand, resting on his lap, was a wineskin.

  “Has anyone touched him?” his father asked while he turned to the men, and all shook their heads. He then addressed the closest man and ordered, “Summon the hunting party he went out with yesterday. Someone had to have witnessed something.”

  “Aye, sir,” a man nodded then ran off.

  All Ethan could comprehend was his brother, lying there, dead. His eyes began to burn and his stomach felt sick.

  The sound of running feet dragged his attention from the west—where the soldiers’ bunkhouse was— but he did not look up as the group of seven, who had hunted yesterday, came up to them.

  With no time to waste, Balgair demanded, “What happened last night? Was me son alone coming back from the hunt?”

  The leader of the group, Alban, stepped forward. “The hunt was a success, Me Laird. We came back, strung up the deer we caught, washed off and decided to go to a nearby tavern to celebrate. Finley had caught the eye of a lass and went out with her. We dinnae want to interrupt him, so we came back, certain he would be able to come home alone. He is a trained fighter, Sir, and the hunt wasnae strenuous.”

  “And who was this lass?”

  The men shared a look between them before Alban, a bit regrettably, admitted, “She wasnae one of the usual tavern lasses, sir, I figured she was new to the…er…trade.”

  “But there was nay way that lass could’ve done this,” another added. “She was thin as a river wisp.”

  “She couldhae been working with someone,” a man put in. “In all fairness, many could have used her to lure him out. But that begs the question, who would want him dead? As far as I ken, everyone loved Finley.”

  “And nay one would run or walk with that wound,” Alban gestured. “It's like the ones we used to drain the deer. One slash across the neck and that’s what all it took to kill him. And with the blood splatter on the ground, it looks like he was killed here too.”

  Balgair rubbed his bearded cheek in frustration, “So, nay witnesses, only a lass ye dinnae ken about and me son, dead on this tree.” He took a moment to consider his next actions and then to the nearest soldier, he ordered, “Yer name is Boyd, aye? Saddle yer horse and ride to Inverness, less than two hours’ run. I’ll give ye a letter to a man named Mister Stewart O’Cain. He is an investigator who hasnae lost a case in his life. If he isnae able to come immediately, stay with him and plead me case until he does. Three of ye, find that lass from the tavern and bring her to me. One of ye, send for me brother at Perth and— ”

  “Sorry, sir, but Mister MacFerson is in the village of Glencoe, nay at Perth,” someone inserted.

  “Glencoe, Perth, or the bloody moon, get him, too,” he ordered.

  “Aye, sir,” the man he had ordered to find Mister O’Cain dipped his head and hurried off, another to his brother and three of the soldiers agreed to go find the lass.

  “I’m going too,” Ethan had been silent for the whole proceeding and finally spoke up even with pain thick in his throat. “I will nay be left out of this. He was me brother. I will be a part of avenging him.”

  Giving his youngest son a nod of approval, Balgair turned to the rest, “Go with them, Ethan, and ye, Boyd, wait here for me letter to Mister O’Cain. The rest of ye, stand guard and make sure nay one moves a thing but get a cover and protect the body, so it’s easier for Mister O’Cain to dae his job. When I find who killed me son, the Devil will have to step aside and take notes what vengeance means.”

  His ominous words sent a cold shiver down the spines of the men as they hopped to follow his orders. Ethan lingered and crouched down to gaze at his brother’s cold, graying face. His heart felt hollow and numb gazing at a face that he would never see again smiling in happiness or cross with agitation, or tired with his duties or lighthearted with his free time. Swallowing thickly, he vowed, “Ye will nay have to worry, brother, we will find who killed ye and bring them to justice. I swear on me life, we will revenge ye.”

  1

  The coals caught fire and Violet O’Cain smiled while blowing on the fire-steels before putting them back in the tinderbox. Going back to the table behind her, she lifted the cauldron of last night’s soup and put in on the fire to warm up for her and her father’s midday meal.

  She dropped the cloth and went to sit on the stool near the window, gazing out into the long plains that made up their backyard and the structures that stood on them. She spotted the barn, where their two cows and sole calf lived, and the stables were their three horses were housed. There was a smokehouse and a shed for their animal feed.

  She turned back to the kitchen and refocused her dark eyes over the dark stonework and wooden paneling. Her father had taken to adopting some English styles lately, and had men in and out modifying the home from an old rustic Scottish home into a modern one.

  Thinking of her father, she smiled.

  Dear old Father…the best investigator in Inverness. I’m glad he decided to retire.

  At the sound of a hurried knock on the door a room away, she lifted her head and moved toward it. But her father’s stocky form got there first.

  She twisted the dishcloth in her hands while he opened it. His thick graying brows furrowed at the person on the other side, “May I help ye?”

  “Aye, are ye Mr. Stewart O’Cain, the investigator?” a thick northern accent asked. She felt a note of desperation in the speaker’s voice.

  “I am. Why?” Her father's tone was suspicious.

  “I am Boyd Graham. Me master, Laird of MacFerson, Balgair MacFerson, needs yer assistance, sir,” the man said. “It’s of a dire situation, sir, he needs yer help now.”

  Violet sidled to the left where her father opened the door a little more so she could see the messenger. She saw a man, dressed in thick gray and green plaid over leather armor, hand him a letter. The man’s face had a grim set to his jaw and his expression was pallid.

  Her father took the letter, and while he was opening it, asked. “Why does he need me?”

  “His son, Finley MacFerson, was killed between last night and this morning and nay one had any inkling who did the deed. There were nay witnesses and nay signs of who might have carried him to the place we found him.” Boyd’s tone had deepened.

  She stood still and watched her father’s brown deepen while he opened and read the letter. Then, he closed the letter and handed it back to Mister Graham. “I’d like to help ye and yer master, Mister Graham, but sadly I am retired.”

  Soldier Graham’s face fell, then firmed. “I am instructed to stay here, sir. I c
annae go back to me Laird empty-handed.”

  “But I am—”

  “Faither,” Violet said. “A moment, please.” She stepped further into sight so both men could see her. She aimed an apologetic smile to the man. “Excuse us a moment.”

  “Violet?” Her father asked while closing the door. “What are ye doing?”

  She rested her hand on her father’s shoulder. “I think we should take this case, Faither. I know ye gave it up a summer ago but this…he seems very distressed. Why can’t we help his master?”

  Her father’s brown gaze was dimmed, “Because I am retired, Violet. I made it a point to give that life up. It was too dangerous for both of us.

  Nodding understandingly, Violet gave her rebuttal. “I ken ye left the field, and the concerns about it being dangerous are important, but the man lost his son. If you lost me in any way, much less murder, wouldnae ye want to do all ye could to have some peace of mind?”